


Catch The Falling Sky

by AtLeastWeWontBeLonelyInHell



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: 4x17 Aftermath, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 07:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4514031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtLeastWeWontBeLonelyInHell/pseuds/AtLeastWeWontBeLonelyInHell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say there are five stages of grief.<br/>Denial and Isolation. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.<br/>For Emily Prentiss, that's nonsense. Some marketing strategy to sell a bunch of badly-written books to desperate people. And besides, she hates when people tell her what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch The Falling Sky

**Catch The Falling Sky**

**.**

**.**

They say there are five stages of grief.

_Denial and Isolation. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance._

For Emily Prentiss, that's nonsense. Some marketing strategy to sell a bunch of badly-written books to desperate people. And besides, she hates when people tell her what to do.

.

She's in her apartment, sitting on the floor in her living room. Her gaze fixed on the white wall in front of her.

Her phone keeps ringing and she thinks that it's probably Hotch. Maybe JJ. But it could be Garcia too.

There's a knock on her door, Reid calling her name and she wonders if Morgan is there as well. Because if he is, he'll probably end up breaking down the door.

Emily isn't sure if she's in the mood to explain that to her neighbors. But she's even less in the mood for company.

She allows herself to sink down on the parquet, her dark eyes staring at the ceiling while she feels Matthew's fingers slip between hers.

"Don't leave me," she whispers. Her eyelids heavy and she wonders why it's so hard to stay awake. "Don't leave me, Matt."

He just holds on tighter.

.

Emily never realized how small their BAU jet really is, until she desperately wants to put some distance between her and her team.

She's hiding in the bathroom, her hands around the sink. Her eyes staring back at her from the mirror.

With trembling fingers she fumbles with the collar of her blouse, tries to get air into her lungs. But all she manages are a few painful gasps.

There's someone knocking at the door, calling her name and she thinks they've done this before.

She meets Matthew's hazel eyes in the mirror, finds him standing right behind her. A sad smile on his face.

.

They're stuck in traffic for what feels like forever.

The sun burns down on their SUV and even through Morgan keeps telling her that the air conditioner is working, Emily doesn't believe him.

She's stressed, and the weather isn't helping. Where there had been snow and ice in DC, there's an unbearable heat in LA. The whole case is gruesome, their unsub on a killing spree, local PD useless and most of the evidence already lost, thanks to some rookie.

Emily leans back in her seat and closes her eyes, tries not to listen to Reid's babbling on the backseat next to her.

He's just Reid being Reid, ranting some facts about heatwaves and traffic. Nothing out of the ordinary. But today it makes her head hurt and she wishes he would be quiet.

By now she can barely breathe in the sticky air of the car, her clothes cling to her body, she's tired and thirsty. And Reid's not only talking to her but Matthew as well. Whispering right into her ear.

Reid's just about to explain the effect traffic jams have on certain people, when Emily loses her patience.

"Would you just shut the fuck up, Spencer!"

She hadn't planned to sound so rude, but it's too late. Reid stops midsentence, Morgan turns around and Rossi watches her in the rearview mirror with his brows raised in confusion.

Emily looks away, bites her lip to keep herself from screaming. Her hands pressed against her ears to block out Matthew's voice.

.

Her head hurts and all she wants is to head back to the DC. But instead she's staring down at yet another dead body, in an empty factory in LA.

She's sure the whole building smells like incense, burning her nostrils and making her cough. Worse than in church. But she can't say if it's real or just in her head.

There's a ringing in her ears she can't explain either, a sound that makes her feel dizzy and she wonders if it's the heat.

The cop to her left keeps staring at her and she feels the need to make him understand how much she hates that. But she's sure Hotch wouldn't appreciate that very much.

Morgan motions for her to come closer and Emily tries to make out what he wants her to see on the dead girl's body. All she finds is red and she can't really concentrate on his voice anyway, because Matthew keeps whispering  _in Italian_  in her ear.

The smell of blood and death is overwhelming, intensified by the heat. It never bothered her before - today it does. She takes one step back and than another and another. Bent over and with her hands on her knees, she tries to fight the urge to vomit all over the crime scene.

A hand on her arm makes Emily flinch as if she's been burnt.

"Don't touch me!" She screams and she's startled by her own voice, but even more is JJ.

"Are you alright?" The blonde asks carefully, her hand still hovering in the air. Worry written all over her flawless face. And Emily can't fight the rage that consumes her.

"Why wouldn't I be?" she murmurs before she leaves the building without looking back.

.

She has her gun pointed at the man in front of her, her eyes ablaze with hate.

There's sweat on her forehead, her heart hammers painfully in her chest and all she can think about are those dead teenage girls.

Someone calls her name over the ringing in her ears. It makes her feel like screaming.  _Maybe she does._

There's a movement out of the corner of her eye, a tall figure suddenly right in front of her. She blinks and finds Hotch looking back at her. Her gun pointed at his chest, instead of the killer's.

"Emily, put down the gun," he tells her. His voice firm and livid. Leaving no room to argue. "Put it down. Now."

She feels her fingers let go of the trigger, the weight of her gun too heavy for her to hold. It's gone before she can blink again.

"What is wrong with you?" Hotch starts angrily. His eyes filled with sorrow and Emily wishes he would just stop looking at her like that.

"Emily! Are you listening?"

His features become blurry, his dark eyes turn hazel. Almost gold.

Emily can't stop from laughing. She laughs until tears fill her eyes and everyone is staring. She looks up at Matthew, even though she knows it's not Matthew at all.

"Go to hell," she whispers. Not sure if she means Matthew, Hotch or everyone else.

Maybe she's just talking to herself.

.

The sun is still burning, the air hot and humid and every step Emily takes feels even heavier.

She stops in the middle of the runway, her eyes fixed on the BAU jet. Unable to keep walking.

"Are you alright, Emily?"

She looks up and finds Rossi watching her curiously. He's standing at the stairs, the others already boarded and Emily wonders how long she's been standing there.

"Emily?"

With sweaty hands she fumbles for the badge in her jacket pocket, her trembling fingers closing around it one last time.

"No," she tells Rossi,"I'm not."

Rossi looks puzzled.

"Excuse me?" he asks her, while he makes one step towards her.

Emily shakes her head, mostly to herself. Shoves her badge into his hands.

"I'm done with this," she tells him. "I quit."

.

She shows up in front of Clyde's penthouse, 14 hours later. Snowflakes glistening in her dark hair and all over her black jacket that's too thin for the freezing London air.

When he opens the door, she feels like she can finally breathe again.

One minute they're staring at each other, the next she has her arms around his neck. Her lips hungrily pressed against his.

He's stunned, but only for a brief second before he hoists her up in the air and pushes her back against the nearest wall. The door falling shut behind them.

.

They're in the shower, Emily's back against his chest and Clyde's arm around her waist.

His lips caressing her neck. His fingers taking her high and higher, until her breath gets caught in her throat and everything bursts into light.

She goes limp in his arms. Hot water splashing down around them.

Emily feels her eyelids grow heavy, begging her to fall shut.

"I should have called him," she whispers. Her voice almost drowned out by the water. "I should have been there for him, like he was for me."

She feels her knees buckle, her body giving in and if it weren't for Clyde, she would fall.

"I should have saved his life, like he saved mine."

She feels the tears burn in her eyes. Clyde's arms pull her even closer against his chest.

"Let go, darling," he whispers softly. "I'm right here."

It's all it takes for her to shatter.

.

She's on the balcony, watching the London skyline. Lights all around her, snowflakes still falling from the sky. Glistening in the darkness of the ice cold winter night.

It's silent, save for the London traffic a few stories down. Matthew's voice gone.

"Are you suicidal now?"

Emily blinks, her eye lashes fluttering against her frozen skin. She feels something warm and heavy dropped over her shoulders.

"Fuck, Emily, you're going to freeze to death out here!"

She's swept off her feet in Clyde's arms, as he carries her back into his bedroom. Emily wonders why she can't feel her feet anymore.

Maybe she should have put on some shoes.

.

When she opens her eyes she's lying in his king sized bed, London's skyline right in front of her. The full-length windows of Clyde's penthouse offering a breathtaking view.

She pulls the satin sheets closer around her naked body, while she watches snowflakes falling. She knows down on the streets it's nothing but slush by now, but from her point of view it looks like a white blanket covering the city.

She takes her time before she grabs one of Clyde's button-downs from the closet and makes her way toward the kitchen. She finds him sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in his right hand and a newspaper on his lap.

When he looks up, his blue eyes finding her dark ones, he smiles.

.

"You're not going back."

It's not a question, it's an observation and there's no need for her to answer.

Emily sits down beside him, takes his coffee cup out of his hands and takes a sip.

"I quit."

He nods slowly, and Emily watches as he folds his paper.

"I almost forgot how much you love to disappear without saying goodbye."

Emily stays quiet. Takes another sip.

"I missed this," she finally tells him. And it's true, even though she hadn't realized that until now.

.

"You knew I would come, didn't you?" she asks him later. Staring at the gray London sky.

"Why do you think I was home in the first place?

She watches him in the reflection of the window. Watches his arms come close around her.

"Am I that predictable?" she wonders, while she feels his fingers trail down the side of her body.

"I wouldn't put it like that," he breathes against her ear, his fingers slipping under the hem of the button-down. "I just know you inside out, darling."

And if to prove his point, he hits just the right spot.

.

They're in Italy, the two of them sitting in a cafe. The warm summer sun kissing their skin.

"So another one closed," Emily says, before she takes another sip from her coffee. "Where are we heading next?"

"Paris," Clyde tells her with a smug smile. His hands finding a way between her legs under the table. "This time we're actually working together, we have to pretend to be a couple."

Emily can't hide her smirk. "I guess that one will be easy, then," she whispers while she bends forward to meet his lips.

He tastes like coffee and vanilla ice cream. Like summer and  _Clyde_  and Emily thinks she couldn't be more happy.

When they pull away from each other to catch their breath, her cheeks are flushed.

"What's with the phone?" She blinks and stares at the burner on the table cloth between them. Watches as Clyde gets up to his feet.

"I have some things to do and until I'm back, I want you to make a call."

"A call?" Emily blinks. A frown growing on her face. "Who should I call?"

"Your friends in Washington."

"No." Emily shakes her head. "I won't. No."

Clyde bends forward and she feels his lips brush over her forehead.

"You will, darling. You will." His voice soft and firm.

"Why would I even want to?" she asks him. Knows he's right, knows that she will call them.  _That she's wanted to call them for weeks._

Clyde gives her a smile, his blue eyes finding hers. Filled with love and trust.

"Because this time you have the chance to say goodbye."

.

She's standing on the balcony of a hotel suite in Paris, her eyes lost in the sight of the glistening lights of the Eiffel Tower.

Her hands on the railing, intertwined with Matthew's.

_"Are you happy?"_  he asks her. His hazel eyes golden in the light.

"I am," Emily tells him. A smile on her face. "I'm happy."

She turns her head to take a look back into the room, finds Clyde sitting on the bed with a newspaper in his hands. Lost in whatever's going on in the world.

_"You deserve to be loved,"_  Matthew whispers. _"You always did."_

Emily watches his free hand reach for her face and she closes her eyes, allows her cheek to rest in the inside of his palm. Knows that this is farewell. Knows it's time to let him go.

_"Goodbye, Emily,"_ Matthew whispers softly, while tears burn behind Emily's eye lids. She feels his fingers slip away, his voice disappear in the distance. And when she opens her eyes again, he's gone.

.

They say there are five stages of grief.

_Denial and Isolation. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance._

They also say that not everyone experiences every stage in that order, that everyone grieves differently. That some stages may take longer, others may never appear.

That some people may never get over their anger or depression. That far too many lose themselves over losing someone they love. That reaching acceptance is a gift not everyone manages to achieve.

Emily Prentiss may just write her own book about that.

**.**

**.**


End file.
